Saturday Morning, Goodbye
by Buck Wilde
Summary: <html><head></head>Blair visits him every Saturday morning with violets and peonies and an entourage of Bass'. But nothing lasts forever.</html>


I get up every Saturday morning at seven o'clock. I used to sleep in when I was a teenager, but I don't anymore. I haven't slept late in eighteen years, so I'm used to getting up early.

I'm thirty-nine but I look older. I've been raising five kids by myself for five years.

I'm telling you this because nothing is ever really about me anymore. I deserve to be selfish once in a while. I'm not bitter though. I love my kids more than life itself. But that's the point, my kids are my life.

I miss details. I live by lists and timetables. I want to take more time to stop and look at the sky and all of the beautiful lost dreams that float around up there. I'm sure one day I will spot mine. It will be alongside Chuck's. And half will be missing from our little floating wishes.

You can't have everything. But we almost did.

Every Saturday morning I get up and spend an hour just on me. I do my hair and make-up and get dressed nicely. When I'm ready I wake the kids up. The hard part is that Luke is 17 and Camille is 16 and they both want to sleep in. But they organise themselves. I still have to organise my ten year old, Cameron and the twins Nicholas and Carolina, my silly sixes.

But once they're ready it's easy.

Together, the six of us walk down the busy city streets and I am able to notice the beautiful things around me. Like the way the road glows after it's rained and the smell of fresh coffee from Starbucks and the warm pastries at Laurent. I smile. We do this every Saturday morning.

We keep walking until we reach the florist. We go in and I buy a bunch of white peonies and violets.

"Are you visiting dad today, Cameron?" Kim the florist owner asks while I pay her. Cameron nods shyly.

"You are an incredible woman, Blair," Kim says. I hug her and we leave before I start to cry.

Our favourite flowers are white peonies and violets because his favourite colour is purple and my favourite flower has always been peonies. We had them at our wedding.

My favourite number is fifteen and his favourite number is three. We divided fifteen by three and had five kids. It sounds stupid but we were happy. That's the way we were; a compliment to the other.

I'm walking with them now. He isn't. I hold Nick's hand, Cameron holds Camille's hand. Luke holds the flowers and Carolina's hand.

Luke takes my free hand and squeezes it as we walk. I squeeze back. He needs my encouragement. They all need me to keep them smiling.

We arrive at the gates and we stop. To compose ourselves and to give each other what I like to call our Saturday Morning Strength. As I said, we do this every week.

But today is a little bit different. And we can all feel it. Camille looks desperately at me.

"Be strong my beautiful girl. You're good at Saturdays." I kiss her forehead.

Luke gives Cameron the fatherly hug he needs. The one that he craves every day.

"Smile mom." Luke leans down and whispers in my ear. He kisses my cheek. I know he's telling me this because he needs to see that I'm ok. They all need their mother to be happy because then they know it's ok for them to be happy.

But I can't lie. Because who ever said time was a healer was full of it. Five years hasn't made it easier, I just hurt even more.

Together with my children, I push through fives doors and conquer 56 steps.

And finally I am standing in the doorway of Chuck's room.

The clean crisp smell of his room is overwhelming and I feel sick. I want to cough up the chemical air until I bleed. Chuck can still move his mouth so he smirks at me.

It makes me laugh. MS hasn't made him any less the man I fell in love with when I was sixteen.

Carolina, Nick, Cameron and Camille run towards their father, fighting to hold his limp body in their arms first. Luke follows slowly behind. He doesn't hug his father, but places a hand lovingly on his shoulder. A silent conversation passes between their matching grey eyes.

"Let's go get a vase for the flowers," he suggests. The tone of his voice, distraught, leaves no room for argument.

I'm alone with my husband. He kisses me weakly. I long to make it fuller. But he is worse than I've ever seen him.

"It's time isn't it?" I whisper. He smiles sadly. I nod. "It's okay. I'm ready. Be brave."

Chuck cries. I don't. "I love you too." I kiss him. "I'll be back." And I stand up and walk out. The children go in.

When I'm alone in the hallway, I let myself cry.

For my children. For my husband. For my broken dreams.

And for myself.


End file.
